Peeta's Sufferings
by Miss Dorks
Summary: Following Peeta from the end of Catching Fire, his POV. See what he goes through while he's in the chains of President Snow.


_Peeta's POV from Catching Fire to Mockingjay._

**A/N:** I don't know if I'm going to continue this, just experimenting.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Hunger Games, nor will I ever, no matter how much I wish I was that brilliant to.

I'm yelling at the top of my lungs, calling her name when I'm thrown back by the force of an explosion. The sky above me shatters into gold dust and showers over the arena. Dirt flies in my mouth, mixing in with the blood from my sheared skin. Before I even notice the state of pain I'm in, I think of her, hoping against all hope that she didn't get killed. I try to get up, but I can't move and the slightest flex of a muscle sends a shock of needles down my body.

I don't care though.

I overcome the functions of the state I'm in and I roll on to my side, resisting to slip under the excruciating blanket of night. I peer through the haze of smog and I see a floating object in the chaotic sky. It's the Capitol seal. Then I see clear as day, and I feel as if part of my soul is being ripped along with the flying bird as it takes the one thing I care about away with its tainted iron talons.

_They're going to kill her. Kill her for what she did. Why did she blow the force field? Why is this happening? _It's all that's running through my mind as I see them fly off.

"I'm sorry," I barely breathe out as my vision begins to burn with black. It's the pain, but I can't differentiate whether if it is from the loss or from the blood that's oozing out of me. _I'm so sorry _is the last thought that forms and I leave the earth, unable to escape the hands pulling me to the ground.

* * *

><p>I'm home. With my family. The smell of flour and cooked bread wafts through the air. I'm making bread again; the normalcy of it all is disorienting and unreal, but so familiar.<p>

The games are over.

My eyes snap open and everything ugly comes crashing back into my mind, like I've only been restarted after a shut down. I haven't forgotten. The most awful memory resurfaces and it dawns on me, I've lost her.

The games are not over.

I'm not with my family.

I probably don't even have one anymore.

It's so hard to breathe; it feels like someone is squeezing the life out of me. It doesn't frighten me; I almost feel relieved. That is until I notice the steady beep that echoes in the hollow, white room. While I greet death, I turn my head in the direction of the sound and see a monitor with ocean streaks shifting across it.

I realize: It is not that I am dying, but I'm drowning in the pit of my own despair. My body is fine, it feels rejuvenated. The last traces of injuries are gone. But my heart is anything but fine.

I hear footsteps before the words reach the door and I quickly resume to my sleeping position and close my eyes.

"Subject is awake," a voice, devoid of emotion announces upon entering.

I distinguish two pairs of different paced footsteps. I imagine the person who declared I was awake staring at me, flustered with my stillness. I almost smile at what skills I've come to accumulate from the games. Almost, though. I remain slack as a cardboard.

"I assure you, president, we took notice of his movements and saw him wide eyed moments ago."

The second person in the room draws nearer, towards me. I automatically pick up a metallic, rose stench. "That is fine," he says so softly, it appears to be a hiss. "Let him a day of peace."

President Snow. His words taste venomous as if something terrible waits in the near future. Give him a day of peace. Just a day. I wonder, before what? They leave almost immediately, but not before the nurse towers over me, challenging me to break under the strain. I don't. Not when I know I'm in the Capitol's grasp too.

The figure of her shadow disappears from the film over my eyes and the rest of their presence leaves the door. I open my eyes when I feel it's safe and scan the white washed cubicle. It's empty except for my bed and the monitor. There's nothing to use against myself, of course. I think of what form of punishment he'll come up with and wonder how soon I'll reconcile with Katniss, unless they've killed her already.

But I have to hope, pray they haven't. They would not have. They can't. They would have killed me right off the bat too. It would only be reasonable to think I was in on the plan, devised it.

Yes, that's it. They haven't killed her. They wouldn't.

Not without me.

I chant the words to myself, over and over until it lulls me to sleep.


End file.
